


give you peace (when peace is fragile)

by Misila



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Panic Attacks, Post-Season 2, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:33:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25718131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misila/pseuds/Misila
Summary: There were no hints of an upcoming apocalypse.That alone was an improvement.(or: life finally slows down, but Five's head is still spinning from the movement)
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy & Vanya Hargreeves
Comments: 30
Kudos: 310





	give you peace (when peace is fragile)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set after the end of Season 2, so it contains spoilers from it.

There were no hints of an upcoming apocalypse.

That alone was an improvement.

Of course, it might be just the calm before the storm. If it was on its way, this time the end of the world would arrive without a warning and they would just wake up to the entire continent sinking into the sea or all the volcanoes of the planet erupting simultaneously or whatever the universe had up its metaphorical sleeve this time.

Five was too drained to care.

But not exhausted enough to silence the thousands of tiny voices hammering nonsensical concerns into his brain, it seemed.

He opened his eyes to a ceiling blackened from smoking, focused on the damp stain creeping from a corner until his brain shaped it into his father’s monocle.

That was the sign Five needed to roll to his side. He told himself the moth-eaten curtain was, if not better, at least _not worse_.

They had returned to 2019 only a couple of hours prior. A 2019 that would go on but had no Umbrella Academy, no home, no place for them anymore; forced to retreat from the man who was no longer their father, the six of them had ended up in the nauseating motel Hazel and Cha-Cha had once upon a time stayed at while they attempted to wipe Five off the face of the Earth.

Less than three weeks prior.

In nineteen days, Five had narrowly escaped one apocalypse, averted the outbreak of World War Three and with it a nuclear holocaust, rewinded time to save his siblings from what would have been their third death before his eyes and returned to a time where none of them were welcome.

And knowing he had stranded them in Dallas for as long as three years crushed his lungs with guilt, but Five couldn’t help the bite of jealousy that came with knowing that they all had time to settle, to rest, to create _something_. Something they cherished, something they lost, something they would most likely miss.

Something beautiful enough to mourn its loss.

For over forty years, all Five had done was destroying, killing, causing pain even when he was supposed to save the world, to save his family.

He hadn’t even had time to think about Dolores since they parted ways for the last time.

Five shut his eyes tightly, covering his ears. He knew it wouldn’t work, just like it had never done anything other than making his father’s voice reverberate loud and cruel within his skull, but he craved sleep. He needed to rest, needed to shut his brain off now if he wanted to come up with good ideas to fix this mess in the morning; but the entire world was getting louder, from his ragged breathing to Vanya’s soft humming on the other bed to the vehicles driving along the road behind the motel.

Like the Handler’s submachine, images of his siblings’ deaths in three different timelines pierced through the makeshift darkness. Luther buried beneath rubble, Diego lying on a puddle of his own blood and Allison between them. Klaus’ stupid tattoo standing out against the surreal pallor of a broken world and Vanya’s eternal surprise as she collapsed in the Coopers’ barn.

A sob joined the cacophony and Five felt it slice his chest open.

He bolted up, stumbled out of the room as fast as he could, not as worried about suffocating as he was about disturbing his sister’s sleep.

Cool air slapped skin almost feverish as soon as Five reached the balcony; he wrapped his arms around his middle, sank to his knees and cursed his stupid adolescent body full of hormones and bony limbs.

Blaming his container was easier than facing the demons locked up in the back of his mind.

“…Five? What’s wrong?”

Five breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth; but he didn’t get rid of the nausea crawling up his throat as he heard that quiet voice.

“Nothing,” he almost coughed, his lungs full of memories of smoke and shrapnel. “I’m fine. I needed air. Go to sleep, Vanya.”

He could feel her presence behind him, only a couple of metres behind; for a fleeting second he hoped she would listen to him for once, and then he considered jumping to a place where she couldn’t reach him.

“I’m not getting much rest,” Vanya admitted. “Mind if I join you?”

Five had volunteered to share the room with Vanya the second they arrived at the motel; he had figured that it was his best option, or at least not as bothersome and loud as, say, Klaus or Luther.

He had somehow overlooked the part of her that always wanted to make sure everyone was alright.

It was too late to chicken out now, so Five gave a small nod, holding his breath in an attempt to slow his pulse down. He barely noticed where Vanya’s steps went, but a couple of seconds later he felt a yellow weight on his shoulders, a blanket that retained a faint scent of vomit despite having been washed.

Vanya sat down by his side.

“Better?”

“Disgusting,” Five answered. Then, figuring it wasn’t her fault they couldn’t afford spending the night in a better place, he added: “Thanks.”

Vanya huffed out a quiet chuckle. Five had promised himself he wouldn’t look away from his knees, lest the tears he didn’t have the energy to wipe away betrayed him under the moonlight, but he couldn’t help it when he heard the click of a lighter.

“I didn’t take you for a smoker,” he commented.

Vanya took a puff from her cigarette. “Caught the habit from Sissy,” she admitted. His expression grew horrified then though. “It’s hers. I brought this from Dallas. What if it disturbed the timeline―…”

“It didn’t,” Five cut her off, though he had no way of knowing. “Or, well, not more than messing around with Dad did. Or me fooling my younger self. I guess. Don’t fret over it.”

He was rambling. His brain was still somewhere else, scattered along with his composure, and his hands hurt from how tightly they held onto the stinky yellow blanket, scared he would fall forever if he let go; but Vanya’s voice felt like a beacon guiding him back to where he was supposed to be.

“…I still can’t believe I won’t see her again,” she muttered after a short silence, breathing smoke into the night. “I mean―I know it was just a month, not like Allison with her husband, but that month…”

“It doesn’t have to be long to matter.”

Five had felt more alive in the nineteen days he had spent fighting the apocalypse with his siblings than during the decades he had been dirtying his hands for the Commission.

His gaze fell to his lap again. He sniffled.

It was louder than he had anticipated, enough for Vanya’s breathing to hitch.

“Hey, thank you,” she whispered.

Five loved her, just like he loved the others, but her words lit a spark of annoyance within him.

“You mean for always bringing psychopaths eager to murder us with me or for fucking up the world whenever I leap through time?”

It took Vanya a couple of seconds to reply. Out of the corner of his eye Five caught a glimpse of the cigarette, forgotten between her slender fingers.

She must miss playing her violin, he mused.

“I mean for saving us,” Vanya clarified, and now she sounded a little impatient. “Five, this world wouldn’t exist without you. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

New tears rolled down Five’s cheeks as he closed his eyes. Breathing in as deeply as he could, he loosened his grip on the blanket, his stomach shrinking in fear.

But he didn’t fall.

There was a hand on his shoulder, thin and agile and warm.

How had Vanya got so close without making any noise? Had she been right next to him all along?

“I knew messing with time had consequences,” he admitted, voice quivering. “I just hoped you guys didn’t have to deal with them.”

Vanya squeezed. Soft, fond.

“And letting you do it all alone? That wouldn’t be fair.” Five leant aside, tried to escape her touch out of sheer spite –what was unfair about the idea? He who messed up should be the one to pay–, but she was faster: “You’ve gone through a lot already. And I ended the world originally, remember?”

Five’s sight was blurry, his eyes burning hot enough to consider his pathetic spectacle _crying_.

“But it wasn’t your fault,” he choked out.

“It’s not yours either.”

For a second, Five was nearly thankful for his stupid tiny body full of hormones. It made curling up against his sister less weird, and her arms tightened around him so easy, so comforting.

He fell apart quietly, every sob muffled in her hair leaving his body more relaxed. Boneless. Vanya was solid and real and _alive_ , and if she was it meant the others were, too, and their existence might be a cosmical mishap but as long as they had each other they would find a way to keep going.

“Sorry,” he eventually heard himself say. “It’s just. You know. Puberty.”

Vanya sighed. “You don’t need to make up excuses to have feelings, grandpa.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Fragile" by Poets of the Fall.
> 
> I binge-watched Season 2 last weekend and one of my most recurring thoughts was "Five needs a hug and therapy" and I remembered that he has a huge soft spot for Vanya so *gestures*
> 
> Thank you for reading! Tell me what you liked about it ^^


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